Moments
by conscienceoftheking
Summary: An amalgamation of moments between Sherlock and Molly, post Reichenbach Fall.
1. After the Fall

Molly felt the icy fresh air whip across her face and she looked behind her, turning into the wind. On closer look she couldn't see anyone in the darkness behind her. It was late, too late to be walking home alone, but she was doing it anyway. Despite her mothers nagging voice in her head telling her how dangerous London is. Despite the fact that she was a woman, and not a very strong or fast one at that, and despite the fact she imagined a person in each dark shadow, she felt a bit invincible tonight. She was still wary of course, she didn't want to be attacked, but over-exhaustion had left her feeling wired and boundless – as if her mind had transcended her body. She breathed deeply and forged ahead, focusing on the sounds of her shoes hitting the pavement to bring her back to reality.

She had stayed late at work to make up for taking the morning off. She probably didn't need to go back to work after the funeral. Everyone insisted she have the day off, but she needed the distraction. She needed the normalcy of death - to surround herself with bodies and to lower the significance of his death in her mind. _People die every day_, she had told herself all evening. _People die everyday._

But she couldn't shake the pain and emotional exhaustion she had been forced to deal with in the last week. She couldn't stop seeing John in her mind, his heart broken face as he watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The finality of death as dirt covered the dark wood. He was angry, she could tell, angry at Lestrade for going along with Moriaty's plan, angry at Sherlock for sending him away when he could've helped prevent the death. Molly knew, just as Sherlock knew, that John didn't believe that Sherlock was a fraud. Somehow he must've been forced to jump; somehow there was a reason for all of this.

Molly quickened her step the last block and having taking out her keys early, placed each of them between her fingers so that they stuck out like a deadly weapon, a small defence mechanism she remembered Sherlock once mentioning about a woman who cut a mans face that way.

She breathed deeply again as she reached her front door, noticing her body was aching from exhaustion, her hands slightly shaking, her eyes wide.

_Calm down Molly, the funeral is over_, she told herself as she fumbled with the lock, _things will be a bit easier from now on._

It was in the second it took for her to open her door and habitually put her keys on her regular table that she noticed the light was on.

Panicking she looked up and saw with a surprise both Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in her armchairs looking up at her.

"Ah, Molly," Mycroft started, "sorry for the shock, I was just checking in with my little brother."

"I don't need checking in on," replied Sherlock.

Mycroft ignored him and continued. "We thought this might be the safest place to meet."

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock in a few days but wasn't completely surprised that her was in her apartment. He had told her he would return in a few days after he 'cleaned up some loose ends' and take the next step of his plan from her place. She blushed at the thought of their last meeting, and then blushed more knowing that Sherlock would notice.

"Oh," Molly said lamely, "how are you feeling?" she asked Sherlock.

"Better, thankyou," he replied giving her a hard stare, "please don't let us interrupt your normal routine Molly, you can come into your own home, Mycroft was just leaving."

"Not until we make a decision Sherlock," Mycroft retorted turning back to him. "I think it's a reasonable offer and the safest course of action, why would you not take it?"

"Do you expect that just because I'm in hiding to go back to being a teenager, stuck in the family home? Should I expect Phillip to turn down my sheets and make me a hot cocoa while I'm at it?" Sherlock said.

"I don't see what other choice you have, you've gotten yourself into a rather awkward situation."

"_Me? I've_ gotten myself into this situation?"

Molly unloaded her bags and jacket as she listened to the brothers argue. As much as they had made progress in their relationship in the past week there was always going to be past differences, old rivals and Molly hoped they remembered to keep their voices down so as not to attract unwanted attention from the neighbours.

She headed to her kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, not knowing what else to do. Even though it was her own home she felt awkward in the brothers presence. They on the other hand looked perfectly at home. Sherlock was wearing his usual dress pants and shirt but something was different about him, his hair was slightly shorter from where she had cut the dirt and blood out and he sat rigid on her chair because of what Molly guessed were the bandages on his ribs.

She had always imagined Sherlock in her apartment, sitting on her couch and talking to her. But it was never like this, Sherlock had been here twice now and both times was unlike anything she ever imagined.

_Molly pushed all her weight on the front door and with one hand awkwardly turned the keys at the same time. Sherlock gasped under her other arm and the action accidently put pressure on his side._

"_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Molly whispered as she pulled him slightly sideways into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind them. She was grateful they had had a bit of time and space at the hospital to bandage his wounds but he still looked like a wreck. He was still dirty, covered in blood and dirt and his clothes were dishevelled and looked stuck to his skin. He was woozy from the painkillers she had given him and needed rest as soon as possible. Desperate to get him down she lowered him onto her couch, not caring for the mess it would make, she had never been so scared in her life, wanting to somehow heal him, seeing the great Sherlock Holmes so weak and vulnerable. She quickly pulled off his shoes and jacket and went to fetch him a glass of water. He hands shook as she held the glass under the tap and realised that they too were covered in his blood. When she returned to him she pulled his shoulders and head slightly up and made him take a sip. He choked a little but managed most of it down, moaning a 'thank you' before lowering himself onto the couch again. _

"_John," he said lowly, "John, did he see it? Did he believe it?"_

"_Yes," Molly said, tears welling in her eyes as she remembered John's face, the desperation in his eyes. _Don't let it be true, _they said, _don't let it be true.

_To give herself some control over the situation Molly started to check his wounds, starting with a large gash on his head. Sherlock had hit it on the gate rigging in the truck where he landed, slightly missing his target. It was always going to be a risk with the plan, despite his calculations. _But it had worked _she thought, _it had worked and now she just had to clean him up, and then everything will be okay. _Blood was matted in his hair and ran down his face and Molly knew it had to be dealt with quickly._

"_We need to…" she started finding his eyes, "we need to clean you up, I have to take you to the bathroom. Do you think you can stand?"_

_He nodded and started to rise off the couch with effort. Eventually they made it to the bathroom off Molly's room._

_Sitting him down she quickly cleaned the gash on his forehead and bandaged it, relived to find it wasn't too serious. The blood had made it look terrible, but she knew head injuries bled the most and there was no need for stiches, which was the best-case scenario for them. _

_Sherlock blearily looked at her finishing the bandage and then looked down at all the blood covering his body. Breathing in deeply he stood suddenly and stumbled into her shower - standing there fully clothed and holding onto the walls. Catching on, Molly grabbed her removable shower-head and after making sure the water was a nice warmth, started to clean his hands and arms. She moved to his feet slipping off his socks and throwing them into her sink, and then she rinsed his legs and then up to his hair and face. He watched her the whole time, eyes slipping open and closed, half there, half not. Tears ran down her face as she ran her fingers through his blood soaked hair, but some of it was too matted with dirt and blood to run clean.  
Sherlock raised one of his hands off the wall and started to unbutton his now soaking shirt, which ran red with blood and dirt. Molly seeing what he was trying to do started to help him but then hesitated, wondering if it was inappropriate. _

_Sherlock stopped too and looked into her face, reading her thoughts he said simply, "now is not the time for modesty Molly Hooper," and continued to clumsily undress._

_Together they removed his shirt and pants, and rinsed the last of the dirt away. _

_After it seemed Sherlock couldn't stand much longer she turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, determined to get bandages on a few more cuts before they started bleeding again. Wrapping him in the towel Sherlock stepped out of the shower, clean and nearly fully exposed except for his dark blue underwear, shivering in the cold evening. Molly fleetingly made a note to turn on the heater on such a cold night, thinking that Sherlock also must be in shock._

_Drying him quickly she sat him on her bed where she bandaged his wounds carefully. She felt relieved now, she had done at least all she could for his health and felt more in control of the situation. Laying him down in her bed, he was asleep before he hit the pillow. She looked at him, clean and cared for, safe and asleep as she stood before him sweating and crying. She quickly cleaned up the bathroom and herself before closing the bedroom door and leaving to turn on the heater._


	2. After the Fall cont

Molly could hear her cat meowing at her feet and thankfully remembered to feed him, giving her a purpose, rather than standing around lamely in her own home. When she looked up from the cat bowl she saw Mycroft staring thoughtfully at his brother.

"So where will you go now? What will you do?" he asked Sherlock who was looking around Molly's apartment.

Sherlock didn't answer for a while but eventually said "I have a course of action in mind, I'll let you know when I decide."

Mycroft sighed and got up, "You know your options then. Good evening Miss Hooper, I hope he doesn't give you too much trouble." He said and wandered out her front door.

Sherlock and Molly didn't speak for a moment as Sherlock watched the front door.

"Does he want you to go to your family home?" she asked him, feeling that she had a right to know the plan, being such an intricate part of it.

"Apparently so," he replied still looking at the door.

They were silent again.

Molly was surprised at how differently she felt about him. Like he was an old friend, returned to her after time at war, battle scars and all. He was an old friend of course; they had known each other a long time. But now he had opened up to her, now he had let her in on one of the most important decisions of his life. She was his lifeline right now and that idea gave her a warmth and confidence she had never felt with him. They knew each other better, had seen each other vulnerable. This was a new stage for them and she felt it with all her heart.

"You went to the funeral today," he stated.

"Yes," she replied sitting on the couch adjacent to him. "It was…well…" she trailed off wanting so badly to express her thoughts yet afraid she would upset him. "It must be a funny thing, wondering about your own funeral," she tried to laugh off. "What people must say about you."

"Oh I think I know exactly what they would say," he replied slightly dark, "Sherlock Holmes, was a great mind, a great analytical mind, its such a shame we didn't know more about him."

"Well, that's not word for word but-"

"Yes"

"Yeah"

"Tell me Molly when was the last time you spoke to your mother?" he abruptly changed the subject, picking up a magazine from her coffee table and holding it up with purpose. Molly looked at where he was gesturing she could see a note she had scribbled in the corner of her latest Cosmopolitan cover, that simply said _10pm, Tim feverous, Alfred Hospital Room 505D._

"Pardon?"

"Work related notes would have been written on your pad by the phone, this was written in a rush – emotionally, not caring to deface your new magazine, Tim is your brother according to your photographs and the inscription in this old book, most likely a Christmas present, younger most likely going by the language used, your father is dead according to a recent conversation you had with me, leaving your mother to be the most likely explanation. Easy. But judging by the shadows under your eyes and the nature of the message, it wasn't a happy phone call, recently perhaps, which is why the note is still here. But of course the worry could be due to the fact that you just attended a funeral today. No less a funeral of a man you know to be alive, causing a great amount of confusion over your feelings."

His thoughts were slightly erratic and scattered as they came out, which was unlike him. Molly couldn't understand why he had brought up the note or which topic he was trying to discuss. But mostly all she could think was that she should've been used to his deadpan deductions by now but she still felt so incredibly exposed every time he did this to her. It was impossible to have a crush on a man who could see right through you.

"He's in hospital, Tim, he's sick, they don't know what it is."

Sherlock looked at her with the slightest sign of what could only be described shame. She realised he didn't mean to pry on the subject of the message but brought it up without meaning. She realised he must've meant to talk about her mother.

"Do you not get along with your mother?" she asked boldly, taking a chance.

Suddenly Sherlock looked half down in a small sad way, which gave the impression he was looking at nothing.

"I… there was an incident when I was younger. An incident Mycroft and I have never seen eye to eye on."

Molly proceeded carefully.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," he stated. "Mycroft and I have always been this way, able to deduce the smallest details around us, able to read people. One of us was more productive than the other."

As he spoke he wouldn't look at Molly, as if doing so would be too much for him, as if putting up an invisible wall was allowing him to talk, as if he was talking to himself. She noticed a change in the way he spoke. Sherlock was never this open, this willing to initiate conversation. Was it because he had come so close to death? Because he had realised how much people cared for him?

"What happened?"

"My father had… our father had been away for a week." He paused. "And then he began acting different. Things started revealing themselves. Mother didn't notice of course but, Mycroft and I…" he paused and turned his head sharply towards the window. "Well let's just say it wasn't Mycroft who had the nerve to reveal the truth."

Molly looked at him with shock and admiration. Had Sherlock really at the age of twelve, revealed to his mother that his father was having an affair? She felt amazed at him, the courage that must've taken, the care he took in taking that blame. She felt sympathy and yet anger at Mycroft at the thought of holding this against Sherlock for so long. Although she rather guessed that wasn't the only incident they have disagreed on in the past.

He was silent for a few minutes.

"It's not your fault you know," she said to the back on his head, "I mean, you don't have to go there. Really, you can stay here! No I mean, if you get stranded. There's always the couch." She ended on a nervous giggle, hoping she wasn't coming off as some desperate crush. She really didn't mean it that way.

Sherlock must've noticed as he turned to her and gave her a small warm smile.

"Thankyou Molly, but I think just tea for now, and we'll take it from there," he said and walked over to the kitchen in an evidently clumsy attempt to be kind.


	3. Goodbye, later

Molly was awake twenty-one minutes before her alarm was due to go off. She opened her eyes suddenly gasping for air as if submerging from water. She had been dreaming of walking along a dark foot path in a forest, the air thick, her legs heavy and weighing her down like magnets drawn to the ground as she tried to run forward. In her last moment all the energy lifted and she fell to the ground causing her body to give a violent jerk as she woke up. She didn't usually have bad dreams, although this dream had been more frustrating than anything and left her feeling sad. Her mouth and eyes felt dry. She lay in her bed, body tense, feeling unable to move as she stared at her curtains closing her window.

Then quite suddenly her brain seemed to kick in to action and she remembered that Sherlock Holmes was in her house. Her stomach turned with excitement. She knew she shouldn't be happy about the fact that he was homeless and in hiding. But Sherlock was in her _home._ With _her. _How many times had she thought and hoped for this moment? She was grateful she had kept her house tidy these past few days in anticipation of his visit. Even though it didn't matter to him. It mattered to her.

She figured she couldn't keep anything from him anyway, apartment tidy or not. She cringed to think what he had already analyzed from her apartment over his last few visits. He couldn't help it, it was the way he saw the world. How curious that he and Mycroft were born this way? She was wondering about how interesting it would be to meet their mother when she heard her cat scratching at her door. She had left him on the couch next to Sherlock last night and in an attempt of privacy, closed her door, unusually locking him out.

She got out of bed and headed towards the door before stopping. Perhaps she should get dressed? At least put a gown on. _No, get dressed_, she thought. The situation was weird enough without getting pyjamas and involved. She let her cat in through a crack in the door and hurried to shower and dress.

When she felt composed and ready she quietly opened the door. A part of her expected him not to be there. She knew she shouldn't get her hopes up about his company with everything going on and how unpredictable he was. She remembered his visits to the hospital with such excitement because she never knew which days she would see him, and how long it would be before seeing him again.

But there he was asleep, of all things on her couch. She couldn't quite believe he was asleep, Sherlock never slept as far as she could tell from John, apparently he got his energy from air, he never slept or ate that much. But there he was asleep. On her couch.

She moved quietly towards him as her cat purred around her legs. He looked so peaceful, head propped up on a cushion and his long legs crossed and resting along the opposite arm rest. He breathed deep and she found herself breathing with him, blessing every breath he took as it meant he was alive. She was so grateful not to have to feel the pain she knew John must be going through, to have to feel the loss of him being dead.

Not wanting to sit back in her bedroom she quietly made herself a cup of coffee. As the kettle boiled gently she heard his voice, as clear as if he had been awake for hours, ruminate around her ears.

"Can I use your phone?" he asked. This was probably the most common question he had asked her since he faked his death, having thrown his onto St Barts rooftop.

"It's in my bedroom," she replied "do you want a coffee?"

"Yes, thanks." He responded.

She made his black with two sugars as he always has it, while he stood in her bedroom texting. She couldn't help shake the feeling that he would disappear again soon, that her part in the story was nearly over. He had places to go, people to see, issues to deal with and somehow, what seemed like an impossible mission, he would have to see John, be born into the world again. She knew that his future was full of big things she couldn't be apart of.


	4. The Cold Snow

Sherlock rubbed his face as he stumbled out of the bedroom. His face felt puffy and hot as his fingers massaged his cheeks and then moved to a pain in the back of his neck. He didn't usually sleep much, so when he did, his body seemed to slump into an unconscious coma which last night resulted in him sleeping for fifteen hours straight.

He had decided that after three days straight, at 12:42a.m that it was time to rest. His body had reached its limit in terms of energy, brain function and sight and so blearily pulling himself away from his microscope changed into some pyjama pants and an old grey t-shirt, before falling into his foreign bed.

Mycroft had given Sherlock everything he had requested; microscopes, specimens, beakers, slides, books, everything that made him feel at home.  
_But it's not Baker St_, he thought as he poured himself a cup of coffee. _It's not the same without John. _He knew it was more than that, there were the cases, of course, that he could no longer work on, Mrs. Hudson to look after him (although Mycroft's sworn-to-secrecy maid could give her a run for her money), Lestrade, the freedom to run around London using all of its resources, the chill of the morgue, his website, John's constant typing away at his blog…

There was so much he craved now that had been taken away from him. He had been alone most of his life but it was only now that he felt lonely.

Ignoring everything but the coffee in front of him, he inhaled deeply and let the senses flood into his system. His body quickly welcomed the caffeine and he knew he would be okay for a few more days without rest.

He reached over to his laptop, which sat precariously on the edge of the bench and habitually refreshed the browser page that he always left open. _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him, _read John's last blog entry. Unwillingly Sherlock's stomach tightened every time he saw the page. He couldn't help but acknowledge the changes that had happened to his life in the last couple of years, it was now he could never ignore how much he had realised people cared about him.

"_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft had once said to him. And Sherlock knew he was right in a lot of ways, but still, he couldn't help but feel sadness at the loss of John and the warmth of his blatant loyalty.

The blog hadn't been updated and like every morning this happened he pushed the laptop aside annoyed.

He sat on the bench stool and stared ahead. Is this what he had succumbed to? Hiding out in his brother's house with no news?

He looked around at the cold environment his brother had created for himself. _Well_, he thought fairly. _Mycroft was barely there, and he had unlikely decorated the house himself._

The only sign of life was a recently used brandy bottle that had been misplaced since last night, some documents and photographs left on a coffee table and a framed picture on the mantelpiece of the Holmes family during a weekend away in Brighton when Sherlock was nine.

Sherlock was disregarding his analysis of the room when suddenly a warm thought entered his mind, like a light.  
It was only _ten more days_ before his plan would be executed. Ten more days and then he would be in control again, he would be on his way back to his old life. "Sleeping makes time go so much quicker!" he exclaimed out loud, realising an advantage to his situation.

"But what about Baker St?" he continued to talk out loud. "I still don't know the situation with John's lease, has Mrs. Hudson decided to give it to someone else? Mycroft is refusing to look into it so far, claiming there are more important factors to focus on, but I need a base. I know faking my own death that I couldn't go back completely into my old life, that there were things I-"

"Hi?"

Sherlock whipped around suddenly, having been taken off guard.

Before him stood Molly Hooper, wind swept and holding two large calico bags. They looked at each other in shock, Molly clearly surprised to see Sherlock sitting in pyjamas before her and Sherlock not quite believing that he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts not to notice someone enter the house. He made a sharp mental note not to be so careless again.

"You sent me a text telling me to bring…" she trailed off as he stared at her in astonishment. "Right well, I'll just leave it here."

She moved to put the bags on the kitchen counter when suddenly Sherlock swooped before her taking the bags, dumping them on the bench and putting both of his hands on her shoulders keenly.  
"Molly! I don't think I've ever been this happy to see you! Come, come in!" he exclaimed spinning her around and pushing her towards the sitting room.

Besides Mycroft and the maid (who snuck in at night and only spoke Polish) he hadn't spoke to anyone in eleven days. Usually he wouldn't mind so much, but he did feel like he was climbing the walls a bit, he needed answers; he needed information; about John and Lestrade, about the outside world.

He guided her onto a couch and energetically sat opposite her, bouncing his feet on the dark red rug beneath them.

He hadn't seen Molly in just over a month and noticed the changes in her straight away. She had lost two pounds, her hair was slightly longer and she was wearing a two-week-old cardigan. She had walked through snow all morning and her shoes were still shining wet. She looked happy, if not slightly taken aback by his odd behaviour and relieved, possibly to still see him alive and well.

"Well?" Sherlock questioned, expectantly.

"Well what?" she asked confused.

"What's happening in London!" he cried, "What's going on? What is John doing? Where is he? Tell me everything!"  
Molly smiled slightly to herself over his enthusiasm. She didn't think she had ever been this happy to see him either; it was the longest they had gone without seeing each other in years. She was so used to his (albeit unpredictable) presence in her life that she found herself feeling empty and over-worried this past month.

And here he was eager to see her, wanting all her attention, wanting things she can give him, things that would make him happy.

"Hasn't Mycroft kept you up to date with everything?" she asked.

"No, I've barely seen him," he replied with a slight snarl, jumping up and staring to pace around the room. "Tell me."

Trying not to smile too much she talked quickly about everything she knew that might be relevant – what Mycroft had been up to in preparation of Sherlock's upcoming plans, how Molly had helped in the morgue with what she could, how Lestrade had been curious of some of her questioning but not enough to worry them.

She told him how she had seen John and Mrs. Hudson regularly and that even though John wasn't living in 221B anymore that Mrs. Hudson had let him keep his and Sherlock's stuff in there until he was ready to move it out. She told him about the police reports and articles she had read since that fateful day on the rooftop of St. Barts and when she couldn't think of any other news she told him how sad everyone looked when she mentioned his name.

He had been listening to her silently as he paced around the room, hands together in a prayer position under his chin, staring determinedly ahead. It was only after she had stopped talking for what seemed like a full minute did he look up to her and ask "And what about you?"

"What?" she asked.  
"You. How…how are you?" he struggled the words out giving the impression he was speaking them for the first time.

"How am I?" Molly asked mystified. She couldn't understand what he was getting at – was he attempting some sort of social obligation in exchange for the information she just gave him?

Sherlock paused mid walk, turned to walk away from Molly slightly and then changed his mind and walked back towards the couch.

He paused suddenly as he passed Molly and the scent of her perfume hit him.

"You've seen John today," he stated.

Molly suddenly sat up straight at his accusation. "What?"

"I can smell his aftershave on you, but why-?"

Sharply he turned to her in surprise. He looked vulnerable, shocked, like a young boy who was suddenly lost. He looked human in that moment, so incredibly human.

"You're wearing John's aftershave," he repeated again, his voice lower now, soft.

"What?" Molly repeated, "No-"

"Evidently something you've neglected to tell me something Molly. I've missed out on a lot of news this month. You don't read about those sort of clichéd endeavours in the papers."

Molly stared at him as he strode towards the window and looked out of it in silence. She felt slow, as is she had fallen behind him in step. He was moving too fast for her to comprehend, changing his moods too quickly. She had no idea what he was talking about, or why he had suddenly appeared upset.

"Sherlock what are you-" instantly she caught on and exclaimed "Oh!" then "ha!" then "No…no! John and I aren't- we're not-"

Sherlock turned to her thrown by the honestly in her voice and looked at her intensely, obviously analysing her appearance. He focused his attention closer on her hands, her bag, her eyebrows; he noticed her breath, her posture, the skin on her forearms. He was searching harder than usual, searching for clues to prove his theory wrong. He had made a rash judgement without a proper deduction. He hadn't done that in a long time, not since he was younger. Why? Why had he panicked?

He was losing his touch, he thought, he was worried about being away from John and Molly, not knowing what they were doing in their lives, incredibly frustrated at his isolation.

"No," he said lowly, "you're not are you? It's someone else, someone with the same aftershave as John and-" in a moment he seemed to finish his analysis and pull his body up to full height, allowing his eyes to widen slightly. "You're serious about him. Is that why you're unwilling to tell me how you are?"

Molly blushed not only at the fact that Sherlock had discovered her secret (not that she didn't half expect him to), but at the embarrassment in being caught trying to hide it from him. On top of this she very quickly remembered the last time he had analysed her love life, a Christmas not that long ago where it was revealed to a room full of people that her focus was on him.

As much as Molly wanted to stay with him in Mycroft's house for as long as she could, she couldn't help but shake the memory of a promise she had made to herself two months ago.

It was the night Sherlock had faked his death and after cleaning him up and leaving him to sleep, she had sat up awake for a long time drinking tea and watching rain crash against the windows outside. It was then she swore to herself that she would try to move on from her obsessive attachment to him. She would never be able to help her feelings for him, but if she wanted to help him survive he had to respect her as a friend. And more importantly she had to respect herself and her capabilities.

Sitting with him now in Mycroft's home she couldn't handle a discussion about why she had kept the news of her boyfriend from Sherlock – she realised it may make her seem like she wanted to remain available to him, but really she didn't tell him because she thought he wouldn't be interested, because she wanted to keep her personal life separate from her relationship with him. She had been embarrassed too much in the past.

"No," she replied with a warm smile, "he's a lovely man, but I'm here to talk about you and what I can do to help. If you don't need anything more I'll see you next week when I bring the remainder of the stuff you asked for."  
Against her will Molly then got up and swung her bag over her shoulder.

"Molly I-" Sherlock started.

"Really, its okay. Just let me know if you need anything else."

And with that she waked towards the hallway in which she entered, as Sherlock stood up surprised. Molly felt her heart pounding slightly but knew in her heart that she had acted courageously. And then with a final look and goodbye to Sherlock she opened the front door, bracing herself for the cold snow.


	5. Save me

John was yelling. He had known about Sherlock being alive for just over a week now, but still, he was yelling. He was angry with Sherlock (that much was obvious), scared, incredibly relieved, blissfully happy and angry.

He had always argued with Sherlock in the past but he found it easier to turn on him now, eager to get his emotions out and project them on a worthy target.

Sherlock sat on his usual armchair and watched John. He was calm as he observed his friend's breathing patterns, the way he clenched his fingers and held his body. He was quietly confident that John's anger would eventually pass, that even though recent events would leave a small scar in their friendship, that John would eventually deeply understand why Sherlock had to go to the extreme of faking his own death.

"John, I understand you're upset-" Sherlock started.

"No, you don't!" John yelled. "You don't understand at all - do you have any idea what I'm going through right now?"

Initially the argument had been revolving around the location of Moran, their current concern and danger but in a moment John had turned the issue on Sherlock- revealing the true source of his anger, just as Sherlock had suspected.

John groaned and rubbed his face, turned his back on Sherlock and leant on their kitchen table, breathing deeply. After a few moments, he turned and said "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just…" he inhaled quickly and turned his head the side. "I'm going to go get some fresh air." And with that, grabbed his jacket and headed towards the closed living room door.

Suddenly many things happened all at once. Sherlock stood quickly, knocking over a cup of tea that loudly shattered to the ground. He also exclaimed "John!" at the same time a soft female voice did. They're buzzer sounded downstairs and John swiped open their living room door revealing a very dishelved and battered Molly.

Instantly the boys could tell that Molly had been attacked. Blood trickled down the side of her face that was coloured in small cuts and newly formed bruises. Her jacket had fallen off her shoulders and her hair was falling out of her long ponytail as if someone had ruffled it playfully.

The two men stared in shock.

"Molly…" Sherlock started, but as she swayed slightly on the spot, Sherlock moved to her in an instant and John, all plans of leaving forgotten, helped him catch her before she fell over. She was still conscious but barely aware of her surroundings, the walk up their stairs had clearly exhausted all her energy.

Looking at Molly an uncommon feeling rushed through Sherlock's stomach and up to his head. Fiery uncontrollable emotions of anger and recklessness burned through him and he felt jolted by the sudden change in his thoughts.

He took a deep breath to regain control and with difficulty, pushed those feelings aside, promising them he'll deal with them later.

And then he remembered the sound of the buzzer going off downstairs – was someone else here? Mrs. Hudson had mentioned going out shopping and must've left the front door open. It was unusual for her, but how else did Molly get in? And why didn't she ring the buzzer before climbing the stairs?

Sherlock's mind was racing with possibilities, but as he felt the weight of Molly in his arms as she lost her ability to stand on her own, all other thoughts disappeared. Sherlock left her weight to John and grabbed her face in both his hands, inspecting her closely.

"Molly," he said determinedly, "Molly look at me, focus on me, you're okay, you're okay now."

She opened her eyes slightly and muttered "Sherlock…" through a swollen and cut lip, but then seemed to fall asleep as her head lolled to the side.

He left her face and looked at her arms, wrists and clothes.

"She's been attacked," he told John, "Tall, middle aged man, 96kg, with dark brown facial hair. I'm going after him. Get her sitting down, take care of her."

And with that Sherlock leapt past them down the stairs.

"Sherlock!" John called, "You don't even know what you're up against!"

"I don't care!" yelled Sherlock furious – didn't John understand? They were wasting time talking, "Call Lestrade and send out the word." And with that he disappeared out of sight.

John awkwardly carried Molly to the nearest chair and gently rested her down. The action of sitting seemed to rouse her slightly and she opened her eyes with difficulty, tears escaping them and beginning to stream down her cheeks. John hurried to find his first aid kit, a washcloth and some water. Moments later he was kneeling in front of her cleaning her wounds and inspecting the damage done to her face.

He smiled encouragingly at her, feeling it too soon to ask questions and confident Sherlock would find the answers regardless.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen him react that way," John told Molly in a warm voice, "I think Sherlock Holmes might have feelings after all."

She smiled weakly as his words, not able to fully comprehend them and then closed her eyes, letting darkness and sleep overcome her.

When Molly awoke next she immediately noticed the difference in her mind and body. She felt clean and warm and padded from bandages and blankets. Her mind was clearer now as it slowly remembered the events from the evening.

She also noticed she was laying down, and trusting that she was safe, opened her eyes to immediately see a digital clock blaring the time 12:37am at her.

Someone had taken off her shoes and jacket and she cosily rolled over in the bed, taking in her surroundings.

The room was fairly plain and clear, despite a couple of book shelves and some lamps. The most obvious thing Molly noticed was a framed picture of the Periodic Table on the wall near the door and it suddenly struck her that she was in Sherlock's bedroom.

She had never been in Sherlock's bedroom before but had always wondered what it would be like. She expected it to be emptier than it appeared, almost imagining he had no possessions at all - just a closet full of similar looking suits, but she was delighted to see small trinkets and pictures littering the room. They stared back at her, inviting little windows into the private life of Sherlock Holmes.

Her heart begged her to get up out of bed and look at these objects that held importance to Sherlock but her body wouldn't let her move. She still felt a bit woozy and quite shocked from recent events, that staying in the warm bed seemed like the most comforting thing in the world. If she got up she would have to face the reality of the situation and questions from Sherlock and John, it felt so much easier just to stay in bed.

When she woke up again, about two hours later, a dark figure could be seen sitting next to her on the bed. For a split second she panicked but familiarity kicked in and she recognised Sherlock's tall slender frame and wavy hair.

He was staring at her with an unreadable expression, one between confusion and awe. They stared at each other for a long time, each trying to read the others expression, both hesitant to speak first.

Eventually Sherlock looked down at his hands on his knees, and then looked up and away from Molly. His voice came out soft and low.

"You were walking here to see me and John, along Paddington St, passing the gardens, you noticed a noise or maybe a shadow of a figure, you paused but then kept walking. Fifty metres down the road you were attacked from behind, by a tall, fairly large man with a dark blue coat. He took you from behind, covering your mouth and dragged you further into the dark park near a bench."

Molly watched as he paused and took a deep breath that seemed to shake a little with emotion. She had never seen him like this before. He wouldn't look at her anymore and he seemed upset, as if he too had been attacked and was still recovering from the shock.

"There he attacked you." Here he looked at her face, his eyes travelling between all her injuries and bandages as he talked. "But you fought back, you hit him with a large rock you managed to grab from the ground and then while he was disoriented a lethal looking branch. You ran and he followed slowly limping. You came straight here and rather than waiting to ring the door bell you tried the door and found it unlocked as Mrs. Hudson had just ducked out to take rubbish to the bins."

At this Molly sat up afraid, ignore the pain in her arms. She had locked the door panicking as she entered 221 before heading up the stairs, quite certainly sentencing Mrs. Hudson to death.

"Don't worry, she's okay," Sherlock assured her, reading her thoughts. "I left the flat just at the right moment, finding her ringing the buzzer to get back in, just as Moran came into view on the street."

"Moran?" Molly asked, confused that he knew his name, presuming a random person had attacked her.

"Yes Molly, unfortunately this attack hasn't come as a surprise to me."

He looked into her eyes then, feeling apologetic but not knowing how to express it. It was a deep regret he felt, and it surprised him as much as the burning sensation had done before. He blamed himself for the attack, he should've done more to prevent it, and he should've known being close to him that she would've been targeted. He didn't want to think about what would've happened if Molly hadn't been able to get away.

"I caught him," Sherlock said simply after a while. "John would like to know if there's anyone we should contact for you."

Molly (and she presumed Sherlock also) thought of Marcus, her fairly serious boyfriend with whom she was supposed to meet for breakfast the next day in Kensington. She wouldn't make it, she thought, but she was quite sure she still had her phone with her and could deal with that on her own.

She had no desire to share the evening's events with anyone else for the time being, instead she wanted to stay curled up in Sherlock's warm bed forever whilst he sat there looking at her with his deep expression.

"No," she said finally, "it's okay. Thank you." And with that she settled back down into his covers, her hair slightly falling over her face.  
For a moment Sherlock instinctually raised a hand to brush it back, but stopped himself mid-air, surprised by his actions.  
"Well, I did owe you one," he said standing up, in an attempt to cover his movement.

He strode across the room and opened the bedroom door, his last action turning to say "Good-night Molly Hooper," and left her to sleep peacefully amongst his private possessions.


	6. Please, I would appreciate it

Molly flexed her warm feet that were snuggled into her comfiest light purple socks. It was a Sunday night and she felt immensely relaxed, regardless of the fact that she had spent most of her weekend at the morgue.

Marcus, her lifesaver, her knight in shining armour, had brought her Indian food and her favourite wine earlier in the evening leaving her feeling completely full and satisfied. She loved that he knew how to comfort her, she thought as she looked at his hand covering hers. He was a saint to her and just generally, a really good guy. How could she have ever gotten caught up in someone like Sherlock?

Ah there he was, she thought inwardly kicking herself, despite the terribly wonderful man in her home, Sherlock was determined not to leave her thoughts for too long. Her one true love (she used to think, although now she was not so sure) was not only intent on invading her thoughts at any opportune moment but had been resolute in being the most rude and horrible thing to happen to her all weekend.

He had always been short with her, blunt, demanding and manipulative when he wanted something, but he had always at least still _respected_ her. And given everything they had gone through together in last few months she did allow herself to think they were actually friends.

But ever since the night that she was attacked something had seemed to change in him. He seemed to be avoiding her at all costs, and when he did see her he would barely look at her, treating her like a stranger.

This weekend found him in a huge rush to get some analysis done and demanded her presence at the hospital immediately in a very short text message. When she got there he vaguely acknowledged her, took advantage of all her hard work as quickly as possible and departed without saying a thank you.

She remembered standing at her workstation in absolute shock as he charged out of the room, the door swinging behind his flowing coat. Tears threatened her eyes as she began to pack up the mess he had made. She was sick of it, absolutely sick of it. She completely felt like a doormat and she made a promise to herself right there and then to never run after him again.

She felt guilty having not told Marcus the truth about why she had gone to work this weekend. She said there had been an unusual death and the police had needed immediate access to her work to help solve the case, which was basically the truth. But the real truth was Marcus didn't know about Sherlock and Molly at all.

He had only read about Sherlock's return in the papers, but then of course everyone had, it being such a crazy and impossible story, the likes of which no one had ever heard before. Marcus had been fascinated by the story in the newspaper one Tuesday morning over breakfast and asked in curiosity what she knew about it, his fake death taking place at St. Barts and all. She had shrugged it off saying she wasn't at work that day and agreed in quiet responses to the sheer awe of the story.

She knew then, in what seemed like an uncontrollable moment, that she had made the decision never to tell Marcus about her involvement in the death.

She had battled with herself for ages over this, knowing that she was determined to separate her personal life with Sherlock but unsure of it being the other way around. Sherlock had always been such a big part of her life, not only personally but professionally as well, but now it just seemed easier to keep her involvement with him a secret.

One main concern was that it raised too many questions legally and should it not work out with Marcus she didn't want to put herself in the awkward position of him knowing too much (she had learnt her lesson from Jim). But she also couldn't help but enjoy pretending that she was a different person when she was with Marcus. A Molly that wasn't smitten and pathetic around the great Sherlock Holmes. A Molly that deserved to be loved and given attention and that maybe, just maybe, this was her chance to move on from him.

His recent unpredictable and rude behaviour had only confirmed this feeling in her and she felt her heart both break in sorrow and fly with hope all at once.

"Molly, you have a text message," Marcus told her, looking down at her concerned. She realised he had been talking to her without her realising, her thoughts lost, as she stared at the movie playing on her TV not taking anything in.

She signed slightly and pulled herself off the comfortable couch, expecting to find a text from her mother, who had just discovered how to type on her new mobile phone and frequently used Molly as a test subject. Her phone buzzed again as she looked around for it, having thrown all of her possessions down in exasperation when she arrived home earlier.

Finally she found it and discovered she had received four text messages all together, her heart leaping suddenly to see that they were all from Sherlock.

She opened them quickly, imagining he had finally decided to apologise for his behaviour and thank her for all her help over the weekend.

The first one simply stated **_St. Barts, now_**. And she quickly disregarded it as being an old text from earlier in the weekend that she hadn't seen. But then each other text after that seemed to get more desperate. **_Now_** said the second one,**_I am at St. Barts, come NOW_** said the third and then the fourth ended with **_Molly, if you could please come to St. Barts now I would appreciate it. Thank you._**

Molly frowned at the screen, realising something very unusual was going on. Sherlock, although impatient, had never sent her four text messages requesting her presence and had never attempted to be polite in any of them like the last one. She stared at the screen trying to see reason and wondering how next to act. Only a moment ago she was reciting her promise to herself not to let him walk all over her, but curiosity was creeping in. If it was so urgent why hadn't he called? And why did he need her so desperately when he seemed to have solved his case only that afternoon? She felt drugged by his sudden attention to her. It was all she ever pined for, but she could never trust how long it would last…

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked after she hadn't moved for a minute or two, staring blankly at her phone, half hunched over her bag on the ground.

"Yes," she responded quickly, turning her phone on silent and putting it back in her bag. "Just my mum, discovering the joy of text," she laughed off.

Returning to Marcus on the couch she started to think more clearly. She couldn't just leave Marcus here, she thought, not when she had been mysteriously disappearing from him a lot lately. The attack was to blame for that as well as Sherlock's constant requests for assistance. But she wasn't John, she thought, and Sherlock could always take care of himself, he had done fine without her before.

Marcus had been suspicious but so far understanding of her absences, encouraged by her constant talk of how unpredictable her work hours can be. She was grateful for his simplicity in the way he didn't over analyse anything. In a very odd way, she was grateful she could lie to him. She settled back into his arms and focused on watching the movie trying desperately hard to push Sherlock and his unusual texts out of her thoughts.


	7. The Analysis

**Wow! Thank you so much everyone for all your lovely reviews. They have been so encouraging and wonderful and have been such a nice little surprise that kept me going through a hard week (That and of course setlock :)) Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"What the hell is the matter with you?" asked John.

The question was born from watching Sherlock pace back and forth in front of him, hands together in prayer position, lightly touching his bottom lip, completely deep in thought. This was complimented with an occasional grimace and groan or even more surprising a frustrated growl and random gesture. He had been at this for about ten minutes now, with no evidential conclusion in sight.

_God, I hope this isn't Sherlock being bored again_, John thought, or so he prayed considering Sherlock had only just finished a case and he didn't think he could handle a shorter attention span from Sherlock than usual.

Sherlock didn't respond but instead stopped pacing and closed his eyes, shook his head and swatted at the air as if dismissing a thought.

"Sherlock," John repeated, and then after receiving only a grunt, a louder "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked at him then and John thought he looked ghostly, illuminated by the dim white lights that shone in the night-time of the St. Barts lab.

"What?" he asked.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" John teased a little. He still took joy out of seeing Sherlock completely baffled by something. It was so much more fun than feeling like an idiot for never seeing "the obvious."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then changed his mind, seeming angry he looked away from John and stared hard at a microscope on the table next to him, leaned slightly forward onto it with both hands.

"I think I might have done something a bit… not good," he said eventually.

"Okay," said John slowly, "do you want to take me through it?"

Presuming Sherlock was referring to an oversight made on their recent case he was very surprised to hear the next words out of Sherlock's mouth, which struggled out with a huge amount of hesitation.

"I may have… made Molly Hooper cry."

John, who was fiddling with his jacket zipper at the time, did a double take, "I'm sorry – what?"

"Molly!" Sherlock emphasised. "She was crying." At that he gestured to where John was sitting, beginning to tell his story like an analysis. "She was standing there and she was crying. I had left the lab after I finished my work and went to come back in," at that he gestured to the door, "a few moments later, through the door window I saw that she was crying." He ended by gesturing back to John's spot and staring hard at him.

"I'm sorry," John said, bewildered, "What are you telling me? You made her cry? How?"

Sherlock tightened his lips and did a quick off-handed shrug.

"Sherlock." John hardened.

"Oh okay, I was a little… rude to her," he said timidly.

"You've always been rude to her."

"Maybe, more than a little."

At this John made a sound between and sigh and a groan and slumped backwards into his chair. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

Sherlock didn't respond but pushed away from the bench he was leaning on and resumed his pacing.

John watched his friend with curiosity. He wasn't surprised to hear that Sherlock had made Molly cry, he was sure he achieved this nearly every time they talked. Sherlock was always giving her a hard time about something – telling her that her boyfriend was gay, that she'd put on weight, that her mouth and breasts were small and occasionally revealing her love for him in the most embarrassing way possible.

But this time the difference was Sherlock's reaction. He must have done something particularly bad to evoke such an emotional response, to even get him to acknowledge that he had done something bad at all. He had rarely seen Sherlock so regretful and frustrated at himself.

"You actually feel bad about this don't you?" John asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied.

"Go apologise to her right now," John ordered.

Sherlock repulsed at the idea but he couldn't deny the red-hot fire that currently burnt inside him, it was that same feeling that had waved through him the night he saw Molly bashed and bruised. What was this? What was going on?

He wasn't an idiot after all, he was aware of how he had felt about Irene Adler, but this seemed different somehow, this feeling seemed to pulse through him at a deeper level, a warm, comforting feeling spreading through his veins…

"Pick up your phone now and call her Sherlock," John demanded. "You, honestly, have a think about everything that girl has done for you and the embarrassment she's put up with. You can't just go round people treating like that."

Sherlock couldn't deny the truth in this statement even if Molly had just been a stranger to him. He stared at John resentfully and taking a deep breath, reached for his phone and starting texting her.

"What are you writing?" John asked being nosy, enjoying the fun of watching Sherlock show some emotion.

"I've told her to come here," Sherlock told him.

"Okay, okay, good," John said kindly. "A face-to-face apology."

"Am I honestly taking advice about this from you?" Sherlock snapped, annoyed by the amusement showing in John's eyes.

He felt weak in that moment. Taking notes from John about apologising to someone was not something Sherlock usually subjected himself to. But he knew he had acted terribly bad mannered to Molly in the last week and he also knew himself – he acted irrationally sometimes without realising his effect on others. John often acted as a 'socially acceptable' check for Sherlock to keep him out of trouble.

Impatient and annoyed at the situation Sherlock continued to text Molly, violently stabbing the keys with his thumbs.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, jumping up from his seat.

Looking around Sherlock's shoulder he saw Sherlock finish typing and send **_I am at St. Barts, come NOW. _**

Panicking John looked at the messages before this, appalled to find two more equally rude texts that said **_St. Barts, now_** and **_Now _**repeated again.

"Sherlock!" John scolded and grabbed the phone from him quickly typing a rectifying **_Molly, if you could please come to St. Barts now I would appreciate it. Thank you._**

He sent it and shoved the phone at Sherlock's chest before going to sit back down. Sulkily Sherlock sat at an adjacent desk and picking up some slides, started to work with a microscope, cutting himself off from conversation with John.

"You are absolutely hopeless, I hope you know," John told him to a predictable no response.

John had been suspicious about Sherlock's feelings towards Molly before, but the evidence now seemed more prominent than ever. Watching Sherlock at the microscope, John remembered how it was Mary who had first illuminated the dull flame that had been burning in the back of John's mind.

Mary and John had been at 221B spending a fairly low-action evening together, just after Sherlock had revealed himself to be alive. They were waiting around for Sherlock to complete some work before they could embark on the next stage of finding Moran, when Molly had dropped by the flat to bring Sherlock some data. The interaction was brief, but there had been a nice familiarity to it and it was obvious that the relationship between Sherlock and Molly had changed. Later that night Mary had said simply, "Well, it seems Sherlock has real human feelings after all. I'm glad that Molly might get the ending she's been hoping for."

John had watched his friend more closely since then. He had particularly noticed he had seemed out of character and on edge since the night Molly had been attacked and despite the fact that they had desperately needed Molly's help on their most recent case, Sherlock had avoided going to St. Barts at all costs.

But in the end the situation called for the inevitable and Sherlock had asked for her help that very afternoon.

Although he found the whole situation quite interesting, John wasn't surprised to find that Sherlock's response to any sort of emotional connection to someone had resulted in him acting like an absolute child.

They had been waiting for about thirty minutes when a sudden thud was heard from the downstairs morgue. They both jumped up immediately, finding the sound suspicious. They had only seen one other person on duty that evening, but had been informed that that person's services had been required elsewhere in the hospital and believed themselves to be alone.

Sherlock was out of the door before John and they took the stairs two at a time to reach the ominous doors that lead to the cold morgue. Bursting into the room, Sherlock could instantly tell that something was wrong. There were blood marks scraped on the ground and one of the doors to a body holding capsule was slightly ajar.

No one else appeared to be in the room but Sherlock and John automatically became defensive. They looked at each other significantly before proceeding forward with their investigation.


	8. Come with me

Marcus had left. Marcus had _left. How could he?_ Molly, who was rarely irrationally angry, was storming around her apartment cleaning up the remains of what she thought was originally going to be a long romantic evening. But instead Marcus had decided to leave early and go home. She knew that he was perfectly entitled to do this, that it was nothing unexpected on both their behalves, he had made it clear from the start that he couldn't stay overnight as he had an early morning and had to go home to attend to a few things. But Molly had been relying on him as a solid excuse for the entire evening to avoid helping Sherlock and now it was only 10:14pm and she was alone with her thoughts again.

She turned off the television, which was now running the late news and breathed for a moment in the silence. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…._ Her thoughts breathed. He was insatiable, impossible, so… incredibly unavoidable. She stared at her bag and listened in hope for the vibration of a new text. She hadn't checked it in a couple of hours and her heart longed to hear from him.

It took every muscle in her body to stop herself from approaching her bag, she instead tried to remain frozen and calm her breath.

_I love him_, she thought standing there quietly. _I really love him._

She didn't feel pathetic at this thought just overwhelmed with anger. She felt so frustrated at herself… at him… at Marcus.

She felt for once that she had finally gotten the man she deserved. Marcus was everything she ever wanted in a boyfriend and she felt like tonight had been the ultimate test to see how much she could really move on from Sherlock. She had tried so hard to appreciate what she had with Marcus and focus solely on him. But it hadn't worked, all Sherlock had to do was send a text and it sent her thoughts into a frenzy, completely hijacking her entire night.

_Fuck it,_ she thought and rushed to her bag. She was pulling her phone out whilst already beginning to slip on her shoes. There was nothing new from him and to her this felt far worse than the first four texts.

She pulled her jacket on quickly and headed out of her front door, shoving her phone and keys in her pockets as she went. He wouldn't be at St Barts anymore, she thought and headed straight to Baker St, all rational thought leaving her mind. In that moment she didn't care anymore that Sherlock had been rude to her all weekend, she didn't care that it might be awkward and inappropriate to visit 221B so late at night, she didn't care that she had wasted years of unrequited love on him… all she could think of was the look in his eyes as he stared at her laying in his bed, his hand instinctually raising to brush the hair from her face…

Arriving at Baker St she rang the buzzer lightly and stood fidgeting, her cheeks burning from the cold wind.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door in her nightgown looking slightly surprised but relieved to see Molly shivering on her doorstep. "Oh Molly dear, its you, come, come in!"

She ushered her inside offering her a cup of tea and gesturing her upstairs. "Don't mind the boys they never answer their buzzer, I think I heard them having a little domestic a moment ago. I try to avoid them when they're being like that."

Molly climbed the stairs nervously, for the first time wondering if she had made a mistake. The last thing she wanted to add to this heightened situation was Sherlock in a bad mood.

"Just do it Sherlock and don't give me anymore grief." She heard John say as she approached their open door.

Sherlock started to make a disgruntled sound but both of them stopped short when they noticed Molly enter the room. Both of them were still dressed in their day wear, John sitting in an arm chair whilst Sherlock stood, one arm wrapped across his torso, the other placing a hand at his mouth, thinking. At the sight of Molly, Sherlock let his arms down, straightening to his full height and narrowing his eyes at her.

"Molly!" John said, "hi, uh…" he looked to Sherlock then back again, "Hi! How are you… how are you feeling?"

He seemed happy to see her but Molly could tell she had thrown him off guard and she wondered if they had been talking about her.

"Oh, fine thanks, much better now," she smiled gesturing to her almost fully healed arms. "Sorry, ah, I hope I'm not interrupting… its just, Sherlock sent me all these texts, they seemed urgent."

Sherlock remained silent and continued to stare hard at her but John on the other hand reacted immediately. Appearing to understand the situation completely, he got up out of his chair.

"Yes, I'll let Sherlock explain that all to you," he said "Sherlock," he said pointedly and picking up his glass of wine and book, left for his bedroom.

Molly and Sherlock stood and stared at each other in the empty room.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"Well what?" Molly retorted.

"Where were you?" Sherlock enquired. "I sent you four texts clearly stating to meet me at St. Barts, and now here you are almost three hours later at Baker St. Forgive me Molly, but I did think you were smart enough to decipher simple text messages."

"Yes, well, I did find you, didn't I?" she replied annoyed.

"Yes, at my flat, well done," he said with malice, throwing his arms in the air.

"You know I do have better things to do than you chase after you all the time," she said flaring up. "You can't just expect me to come to the hospital whenever you want me to."

"Oh I'm sorry," Sherlock said sarcastically, clearly getting angry, "Did I interrupt a romantic evening with that buffoon boyfriend of yours? That certainly sounds more important than a missing body from the morgue, a misplaced axe and a very suspicious wedding dress fitter. But no, by all means just relax, have a glass of wine on me."

"What?" Molly faltered, feeling completely lost. "One of my bodies is missing?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"But," Molly started, "We were just there this afternoon! Wh-"

"It had happened earlier this evening," Sherlock said, "After you didn't respond to my text messages."

Molly, stunned by this bit of information, sat down on the seat John had just vacated. Her brain ran through a hundred thoughts at once.

How stupid of her to put her personal problems before work. She felt embarrassed making such a big deal about Sherlock's texts. Was he was actually trying to help her for once? But the body had disappeared after he had sent the texts – what did that mean? What had the texts originally been about?

_Don't blame yourself for not going_, another voice said quickly, _you couldn't deny how rude he had treated you. It wasn't your fault to think he was going to use you again_.

She imagined what the hospital might say if they found out about the body. She didn't imagine Sherlock had told them and she was lucky tonight had been a quiet night there- she remembered seeing the roster before she left.

Molly buried her face in her hands and was silent for a moment.

She wasn't going to blame herself, she agreed. She thought about how strong she had been through this whole situation with Sherlock, how much he had valued her and how much her contribution had helped him.

She sat up and stared at him straight in the face. She hoped she looked brave and determined and strong. She hoped he couldn't see how close she had been to cutting him out of her life.

Sherlock's face softened as he looked at her in that moment.

"Molly…" he said softly.

He moved closer to her then, kneeling on one knee to make sure they were on the same eye level. It was an intimate moment and Molly was sure her eyes shone with tears the same night he had asked for her help at St. Barts, all those months ago…

_"You do count, you've always counted and I've always trusted you…."_

Sherlock stared deep into her eyes and she could see a fear in there, a vulnerability she recognised from that same night.

_"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"_

She realised she had seen him exposed like this before, more recently, when he had stared at her as she laid in his bed battered and bruised…

Slowly he placed one of his hands on hers, which lay in her lap. It felt warm and exciting to them both, a thrilling new feeling bolting through them.

"Molly I…" Sherlock choked, struggling to find the words.

"Molly, I'm sorry. Please forgive me," he said simply.

She nodded. Their faces were so close together and Molly noticed their breathing patterns were the same. It would've only taken a small action to bridge the space between them.

Sherlock's heart thudded heavily in his chest and in that moment he realised the full extent of his feelings towards Molly. For the first time he saw himself as the man she loved. He remembered back to all of their moments together - how he had treated her, how she had stayed with him and cared for him, how they had worked side by side for so long - a connection of experiences and memories growing stronger each year. As if having no control over himself, he allowed himself to open up to the full extent of her love for him and found in himself the same feelings reflecting back.

He stood up then, shocked by what he had realised. It was something new to him and he felt that his view on the world had been adjusted, that everything around him looked suddenly different.

Molly stood up then too and pulling herself together, said to him strongly, "What do we do now?"

Sherlock, certain that she was talking about the missing body, closed his eyes tightly, shook his head faintly and brought himself back to the work ahead of them.

"Come with me," he said to her and his stomach jolted, excited that he would be spending the near future in her presence.

Sherlock then called out to John and proceeded to put on his jacket and scarf.


End file.
